The room was steeped in shadows, thick with the scent of iron and ash. Blood painted the floor like a masterpiece—abstract and grotesque. The only light came from the moon filtering through a cracked window, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. You stood still in the center, like a sculpture carved from sin, the buttons of your black dress shirt undone just enough to reveal the faint smear of crimson across your chest.

Your hands were stained—one loosely holding a dripping blade, the other casually at your side, fingers twitching with residual thrill. The carnage around you was precise. Beautiful. Calculated. Nothing was ever random with you. Even chaos followed your choreography.

Lyra sat across the room, perched on a steel table like a queen on her throne, her boots dripping red. Her hair clung to her face in damp strands, her eyes never leaving yours. Not once. She looked like war incarnate, eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than rage—recognition.

Between you, the silence was deafening.

She didn’t move. Neither did you. But everything about the moment screamed violence and intimacy and all the twisted things in between. Her presence wasn’t a disruption—it was a mirror. Every dark part of you called to her. Had since the beginning. She wasn’t a ghost from your past. She was your past. Your present. Likely your end.

A breath passed. Your eyes locked.

There was no fear in her. Only understanding. Hunger. And that damn electric tether that had always kept your monsters aligned. The same thread that had sewn your lives together in blood and obsession.

You dropped the blade.

She stood.

And when she crossed the room and pressed her body to yours, nothing about it was soft. It was violent. It was holy. Her hands slid over your ribs, past old scars, fresh wounds. Her lips brushed your throat like a prayer spoken in the language of the damned.

You buried your hands in her hair, pulled her closer, let the blood between you smear like ink across scripture.

Because if your love was anything— It was war. It was ruin. It was always going to end in fire.

But for now, in this moment soaked in silence and sin—It was enough.